


This Talk of Scars and Stitches

by slenderfolk



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, scar talk, things like that, weird sentiments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slenderfolk/pseuds/slenderfolk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James is barely decent at tending to his own wounds. Raoul decides to help him out.</p>
<p>Done for a prompt on Tumblr that probably deviates hardcore from what Anon was actually asking for. A thousand apologies again. Also, Barcelona is an amazing band.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Talk of Scars and Stitches

Among the many things Raoul admires about James, he finds his scars to be some of the most alluring. People moan and groan about their skin being tarnished and flawed, but he doesn’t. He likes scars, no matter how disfiguring or grotesque. They’re maps, whispers and storytellers, all on one’s body. James has many, and Raoul would gladly spend hours looking at them, touching them, kissing every single one if he could. The man’s scars are storytellers, and Raoul does enjoy a good story.

James stands in front of the mirror with a needle to his flesh and a thread between his teeth, judiciously stitching up a gash he was given on his last foray into the field. It slices vertically across his chest, not deep enough to damage him internally but still make him bleed. Every now and then he utters a curse under his breath, a “Shit,” here and a “Christ,” there. Raoul hears his muttering even over the clicking and clacking of a keyboard, twisting a smile at each curse.

“Do you need help?” He offers, though his eyes never leave his computer screen. “No,” James flatly declines. He is a grown man, a double-0 agent; he can stitch up his own cuts.

“Shit.”

“That doesn’t sound promising.” Raoul points out.

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing something yourself?” James asks with noticeable annoyance.

Raoul nods. “I _am_ doing something,” he confirms with a gesture to his computer, “See? I’m being productive. Can’t say the same for you, hm?”

James eyes him in the mirror but remains silent, turning his attention back to his handiwork. This time he tries not to make any sound and it works well at first, but over the next few minutes it crumbles into grunts and curt exhales of breath, both of which Raoul can still hear.

At some point, he stops typing and raises his head to look at James over the monitor—so flawed and broken, unblinking at the idea of the kill and composed in the worst situations, smooth and defined in words and body. Beautiful is a word that comes to Raoul’s mind as he stares and it floats in the confines of his head to grow until it forms a picture of the man with eyes like ice and the sea.

He rises from the desk and slowly approaches the other agent to stand behind him, close enough to bow his head and press his lips to the nape of the man’s neck. “You’re taking an awfully long time,” He murmurs into his skin, raising his hands to take James’s. “Are you sure you don’t need help?”

“You think trying to seduce me is helping?”

Raoul laughs, teeth brushing against flesh. The man doesn’t miss a beat, so steadfast in his focus and his speech.

He lifts his head and turns James around to face him, jutting his chin toward the countertop. “Sit,” And with a sufficiently irritated (but resigned) roll of the eyes, he does.

James is still as Raoul takes the needle and thread and gets to work. His hands are deft, sure and swift in their movements. James thinks he can’t see him flinch (so slightly, though—it’s the twitch of his mouth or one too many blinks), but he can. They’re so close that he can see every move he makes, voluntary or not. He sees the rise and fall of his chest, the shift of muscle when he scratches the side of his neck. All of his scars move with him, curving and sinking and shifting. More than once, Raoul is tempted to leave his work and kiss each scar he sees but he resists. He is patient, he can wait. James’s hands don’t work the way his do and it’s Raoul’s responsibility to cover this slight discrepancy. No one else will.

“Look at you,” He says with a vague tone of wonder, “All these cuts and bullet wounds—soon you will be comprised of nothing else, the way you keep up.”

“Do you suggest I keep up differently?” James asks dryly.

Raoul nods, slowly, “Mmhmm. Your brand of tactical recklessness only works for so long. It’s a method best kept to the fresh-faced, is it not?”

“You don’t think I’m fresh-faced?”

Raoul shakes his head with a hum. “No, I don’t.”

He glances at James’s face, catching a flash of suspicion and smiling at it. “You’re offended? Don’t be. I find it endearing.”

“It might just be that you have an affinity for scars.” James suggests, and Raoul’s smile grows. “Among other things,” He replies.

“There,” He leans back with his hands lingering around the scar. “All done. No need to thank me.”

“I wasn’t about to.”

“Ooh,” Raoul makes a show of recoiling, removing one hand to put it on his heart. “You are more hurtful than you know. At this rate, I’ll be reduced to a puddle of sadness.”

“Shall I fetch the bucket?”

He laughs and shakes his head again, looking down at James’s chest. If not a puddle of sadness, Raoul thinks, then certainly one of admiration.

“Look at you,” He says once more, though much quieter and slower. James sits in silence as he moves in, inching his legs apart to let him step closer. Raoul traces the scars on his chest and stomach first, ghosting a feather-light touch across his skin. He reaches around as he looks at James’s back in the mirror, returning his lips to the nape of his neck and running his thumbs down the marred increments of flesh. He touches them gently, carefully, like they will bleed if he dares to press down. Every scar tells a story, and he reads them studiously.

“Feel free to take your time,” James utters sarcastically. He’s one to talk; his hands linger in the small space between their bodies, idly brushing circles against Raoul's stomach. He feels a broken hum vibrate against his shoulder—a laugh. Of course. Raoul would respond with nothing else.

“You are beautiful,” He sighs, “Wearing your scars like armor and flags.”

He almost sounds wistful. He probably is. James thinks back to when MI6 pulled Raoul out of the Chinese government’s hands, when they found him in that dark, dank room. If James is beautiful with the scars he has, then Raoul was immaculate back then.

But he didn’t think so. No one did. He was in excruciating pain, he was a shell of his former self, and he had to be rebuilt. He used to have scars, but that was before imprisonment, before he spent five months burning from the inside while the Chinese battered him on the outside. He didn’t have scars then; he had gaping holes and exposed bones. These days, he has neither. His body is a blank canvas, his skin unmarred. His only remaining scars are internal.

This is what Raoul is thinking about and James knows it. The way he strokes his flesh is as longing as it is affectionate, like if he memorizes the man’s scars it will be enough to satisfy him. But he’s always liked scars and he loved his own—he doesn’t have them anymore. They were broken off, covered up. Just like the rest of him.

James has grown accustomed to remaining absolutely still whenever Raoul loses himself in this act of tracing scars, letting him have the time to reflect and admire and do whatever else he needs to. But James sees the sun set outside the room, lower and lower until the only light is coming from the computer screen and the fixture above the mirror, and he knows Raoul has been gone for too long.

James wraps his hands around the man’s waist to pull him closer. He kisses his neck, presses his fingers into Raoul’s lower back to pull him out of his reverie.

“Are you there?” James asks, meeting with immediate silence. He decides to wait a little longer, and at some point he feels Raoul nod against his shoulder. “Mmm,” He concedes, but he doesn’t move away. Neither of them do. “Yes. Thank you.”

James says nothing, only looking on as Raoul straightens up and steals his lips in a kiss.


End file.
